Jack gave a growl, knowing the police would bear the brunt of public scorn, when in fact it was the legal system that had let folk down.
He stood, resigned to get on, hopeful that today they might get news on the careful operation presently underway in Brussels, which was a joint effort by British, French and Belgian task forces. This was an important one for Scotland Yard’s counterterrorism unit, of which he was second-in-command for the International Liaison Section.
As Jack was rinsing the shampoo out of his dark hair, in need of a trim, which he would tame with a firm brush, he heard his phone ring. He reached for the Nokia that was balanced on the basin and stepped away from the showerhead, his other arm grabbing a towel. Eyes stinging slightly from the suds, he answered.
‘Morning, Jack?’ It was his old super, Martin Sharpe, now Acting Chief Superintendent of the Homicide and Serious Crime Branch at Scotland Yard.
‘Morning, sir. This is a surprise.’
‘Have I caught you at an awkward moment?’
‘No, sir. Well . . . just showering. Hang on.’ He put his head briefly under the water again to rinse properly and then, in a slightly muffled tone as he dried his face, he returned to Sharpe. ‘Are you well, Martin? Family okay?’
‘All fine . . .’ He sounded hesitant.
‘Except?’ Jack encouraged him, turning off the water.
‘I’ve got something.’
He waited, but Martin was prepared to wait too, it seemed. Jack began towelling dry. ‘All right, spill it, sir.’
‘Three corpses. All murdered, we believe.’
‘Related?’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘Where?’
‘Finsbury Park, another in Eastbourne, a third in Birmingham.’
‘So . . .?’ Jack frowned, perplexed.
‘Two different counties as well as London and we can’t tie them together, I admit. However, their bizarre nature has set off alarm bells. Heads of CID have agreed that the Met should coordinate investigations rather than risk another Ripper.’
Jack blinked with surprise at the mention of Sutcliffe, who still haunted police ops and indeed changed the way they approached major investigations. He decided to leave that alone. ‘Bizarre in what way?’ Jack opened the mirrored cabinet and reached for the deodorant, before filling the basin with hot water. ‘Sorry, sir, hope you don’t mind if I keep getting ready.’
‘Not if it gets you in faster.’
Jack winced. So it wasn’t just advice being sought. He should have known it was coming.
‘I’ll need you on this one, Jack.’
‘Martin,’ he began, hoping to appeal to the mentor he treated with the same affection as a father, on the slim chance he could wheedle out of whatever it was that his old boss was about to lay at his feet. ‘I’m at the pointy end of a huge operation that’s taken almost a year to come to fruition. I’ve been working on—’
‘I know about it . . . not the Secret Squirrel stuff, of course, but I know you’ve been doing a sterling job as deputy head at Counter Terrorism International Liaison. I know your French counterparts especially enjoy working with you and, in particular, Mademoiselle Bouchard at the embassy is impressed by you.’ Sharpe let that hang. So, Martin knew about Sylvie. Jack smiled. Couldn’t hide much from the old fellow. He soaped his face and began shaving. He waited. ‘Are you there, Jack?’ he heard his superior ask.
‘I don’t want to return to my previous role, sir, to be honest.’
‘You wouldn’t be returning to your previous role.’
‘I see,’ he said, relieved. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘How does Detective Superintendent sound?’
That was unexpected. Jack didn’t know whether to feel elated or cornered. ‘I hadn’t put in for a promotion.’
‘Don’t be coy, son. You’ve earned this and deserve it, but I need you heading up this operation.’
His super was playing with semantics. Not precisely the identical role because he’d have more status, but still heading up a major murder investigation . . . if it was one. ‘There must be half a dozen qualified—’
‘There are,’ Sharpe interrupted, becoming testy. ‘But none as experienced as you.’
‘For what?’ Jack genuinely couldn’t see why he was the best fit.
‘For taking on a serial killer.’
The words hung between them. Jack flung the razor into the soapy water and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You’ve admitted there are no similarities.’
‘Not with the actual killings, no. And not with the MO either.’
‘I’m sensing a but,’ Jack said, realising he was not going to win this one. He stared at the man in the mirror, the former poster boy for Scotland Yard who had caught two serial killers in back-to-back dramatic operations that had almost claimed his life and that of his best DI, but had also carved away a chunk of his heart and his faith in humanity. ‘Where’s the similarity, Martin?’ he demanded.
‘The victims. They’re all convicted criminals.’
Jack’s expression changed to one of intrigue. ‘Dead cons?’ he said.
‘It’s the only link we can make. But I have a good nose, you’d agree?’
Jack nodded. ‘And you’re smelling something bad.’
‘That’s right. My office, soon as you can.’
Sharpe gestured to a seat once they’d shaken hands. ‘Good to have you back, Jack.’
‘Am I officially back? This is an order, is it, sir? I have no say?’
‘It is and I’m sorry.’ His boss had the grace to look genuinely sympathetic. ‘We need you on this one.’ He pushed a couple of files across his desk.
Jack opened them to look at crime scene photos, pathology reports, all the other relevant documentation, taking time to have a cursory glance through the material. Martin didn’t mind the brief silence, even fielding a call – one that involved Jack.
‘Yes, he’s with me now. We’ll start the ball rolling this afternoon. No. Absolutely no media. Not yet – we’re not ready to discuss anything outside of these walls . . . unless some wily journalist makes a connection. But as I’ve told you, sir, there’s nothing to join the dots yet, in my opinion, but we’ll see what our boy turns up. Yes, I’ve mentioned that to him, sir. No, I doubt it did. You know Jack.’ He smiled humourlessly as the person on the other end spoke. ‘No, sir. Nothing yet, other than my twitching gut, Commander,’ he confirmed.
Jack looked up, waiting for Martin to conclude his conversation.
Sharpe put the phone receiver down. ‘He hopes you’re happy with the promotion. So?’ he said in a weary voice, nodding at the files.
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Just a bit tired. I thought I’d hate retirement. My wife assures me she’ll keep me busy . . . there are cruise brochures stacked next to our bed.’
Jack smiled in sympathy.
‘Curiously, I’m feeling ready for it now – retirement, that is, not the cruising. Can’t see myself in slacks and plimsolls.’
‘They’re called sneakers these days,’ Jack quipped.
Martin chuckled. ‘I like to use those words to annoy the grandchildren. Seriously though, can you see me in a polo shirt, strolling a ship’s deck and impatiently awaiting happy hour?’
‘I really can’t.’ Jack grinned. There was a poignant pause between them. ‘You’ll be missed, sir.’
Martin nodded. ‘Until then, we have this problem,’ he said, gesturing towards the files in Jack’s hands. ‘I am not going anywhere until this is sorted. Talk to me.’
Jack blew out his breath. ‘Nasty,’ he agreed. ‘Julian Smythe, in for manslaughter . . . only got five years for beating his wife senseless. He was out in less than three years. Got off lightly,’ he remarked, his eyebrow lifting.
‘Well, I agree until you find out he was killed by being all but cooked to death.’ Jack flipped over the page as Martin spoke. ‘The coroner summarised the pathology report that the perpetrator likely pour
ed several litres of freshly boiled water over his head before setting him on fire.’
Jack shook his head, giving a low whistle of awe. ‘That goes beyond vicious. Even the heavy guys in Vice wouldn’t be bothered with that . . . unless they were torturing him for information.’
‘From all we can tell, he wasn’t connected with any known crims.’
‘The dead men weren’t in the same prison, were they?’
‘No. And Peggy never made it to prison.’
‘Doesn’t sit right with you, sir?’
‘Does it feel odd to you? One of London’s well-known madams, who we’re certain was running an even bigger online prostitution racket, apparently commits suicide with an overdose while sitting next to a tree in Finsbury Park?’
Jack waited, as he could tell that Sharpe was just drawing breath.
‘. . . in the middle of November!’
‘All right, I’ll admit that’s beyond odd, but I’d have to study the victim, understand the circumstances.’ Jack frowned, pondering. ‘So no prison involved here?’
‘Should have been. Peggy Markham was acquitted two years ago for the crime of procuring a girl under sixteen for unlawful sexual intercourse.’ At Jack’s frown, he explained. ‘She was accused of allowing a client to practise his particular deviancy on a fifteen-year-old. The girl died.’
‘That’s a long bow you’re drawing, putting Markham in with these two.’
‘And yet I am. From all I’ve dug up, I can’t find a single reason for Peggy Markham to end her life. If anything, her empire was flourishing. She wasn’t sick, had no troublesome family – a son in Spain running a hotel keeping as much distance as he could between himself and his criminal mother, not to mention his criminal father, long dead. Meanwhile, she’d just dodged a prison cell that had her name on it. She should have been celebrating, not contemplating suicide.’
Jack blew out his cheeks. Martin was right; it was curious, but privately he wondered if his superior was simply reaching, keen to go out on a triumph. Even thinking that made Jack feel disloyal. Martin had never been someone who sought out the limelight, but he could feel the passion exploding from the other side of the desk.
‘What about Alan Toomey? Remember him?’
Jack shook his head.
Martin threw a file in front of him. ‘Read what happened to him.’
Jack obeyed and was soon enough looking up with an expression of disbelief. ‘So, where do I come in?’
‘I have to be sure, Jack. I’m not leaving for the great yonder knowing there’s unfinished business. Just take a look, would you?’ he appealed. ‘The oddity of these deaths and the vague commonality I sense in the victims are sticking in my craw. You’ve run the two most notorious murder cases in living memory, you’ve got the cred and the knowledge, and I want to put that to good use. So, I’ve been given permission to follow my hunch. Are there more dead crims we are yet to find or haven’t connected the dots to?’
Jack looked back at him, trying not to show his despair at being cornered into accepting the task, as Sharpe sat forward in earnest.
‘Jack, do you agree that these look and even sound like murders?’
‘Yes, to the two men.’ How could he not agree? No one would inflict those injuries on themselves. ‘But Peggy Markham . . . I’d need more time.’
‘Take it. These deaths have occurred over three years, so there’s no panic. Put together a small op – we don’t need the usual dozens. Keep it tight.’ The phone rang and Martin looked vexed. He pressed the button to the loudspeaker on the unit. ‘I said no—’
‘You’ll want to take this, sir,’ his secretary assured him. Martin glanced through the glass to where she sat, and Jack watched her nod firmly. Martin visibly sighed and picked up the receiver. ‘Sharpe here.’
Jack watched the man’s brow crease before he leaned his elbow on the desk and supported his head as though the burden of it was suddenly too heavy.
‘Where?’ was all he said before nodding. ‘All right, I appreciate the early information. Thanks, Doug.’ He put the phone receiver down and glanced at his secretary with a slight nod of gratitude before he looked at Jack. ‘Rupert Brownlow?’
‘Out last week, I heard.’
Sharpe nodded. ‘No justice there for the people he killed because he was dumped by his girlfriend.’
‘Does the Met think we should keep him under supervision now that he’s out? He’s an obvious target who’s going to be hounded by reporters and angry civilians.’
‘Yes, well, he doesn’t have to worry about being chased any longer. His corpse was found near Portsmouth seafront. Dragged behind a car like a ragdoll for quarter of a mile . . . or so the bloodstains suggest.’
Jack stared at his boss, eyes narrowing, taking a moment to process what this meant. ‘Hardly an accident then, sir.’
‘Believe me now, Jack?’
‘Is Joan available?’
Sharpe stood and grinned. To Jack it looked like a grin of relief. ‘Already moving in. Seventh floor. You know the pack drill.’ He extended a hand. ‘Thanks.’
Jack shook hands with the senior officer, knowing the gesture sealed his fate in regard to the European operation he was in charge of. ‘Who’ll take over upstairs?’
‘It’s all in hand. Seriously, Jack.’ Sharpe hadn’t let go of his hand yet. ‘I appreciate your help on this one. Then I can retire and know I left things tidy.’
‘Until the next time,’ Jack murmured but in a lighter tone.
‘That’s someone else’s watch,’ Sharpe replied. ‘Joan’s waiting for you.’
Jack nodded, fully resigned, and began his journey down from the senior corridors to the seventh floor, where his new operation was apparently already underway.
3
Sitting and waiting for his appointment, he amused himself by reliving the Rupert Brownlow killing. Amazing that he was like two men in one body. One half was perfectly respectable and leading a good, sound, empathetic life. But the darker half, which had emerged since the bleak day that changed everything, was capable of inflicting a terrible price on people whom he felt deserved it. He now considered these halves a team: two minds, two voices, one body. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a conscience – quite the opposite, in fact. It was his good conscience that led him to consciously partake in bad acts.
The news had only reached the papers this morning, but Colin knew his victim had taken his last breath two nights ago. Since he’d been old enough to hear stories and tell them, Colin had been able to live them with great detail and authenticity in his imagination. He used to make up games for himself and his friends to act out in the woodland around Enfield. He could see it all in rich colour: landscape, characters and action in minute detail. He was like a film director, giving his actors a brief and then they’d be off, he and his friends, scattering into their roles as spies, or soldiers, or cowboys and Indians. He could describe rivers to cross or mountains to scale, castles to storm or prisons to escape from, and his band of friends would listen wide-eyed and excited, because he was able to make each scene come alive for them.
Curiously, even though that talent nourished this new and murderous role, it was now occurring in reverse: Colin lived it first in the real world before he allowed it to unravel in his imagination. In real life it was always quick, focused, with no time to think on it other than to be sure tracks were covered, no clues left. It was only later that the replay could be watched, a movie unfolding in all of its lurid detail. There was no enjoyment in the death but there was satisfaction, which rode on a sense of relief and even a sort of evangelical righteousness.
And Rupert Brownlow had deserved every moment of his fate because he’d never shown contrition. What the court had witnessed was the hollow repetition of a scripted apology delivered by a criminal who, even in that period of supposed regret, managed to let his arrogance born of privilege ease through. Eight human lives had been lost because of his selfish joyride. It should have brought eight l
ife sentences.
However, Brownlow’s sentence, when handed down, was lenient enough to shock the public, but that too was halved when he was let out early . . . quietly. Prisons were full, the pressure on the public purse was enormous, and all the do-gooders were riding on their high horses to let people like him out. He was young, good-looking, saying all the right well-rehearsed words of remorse, with all the ticks from prison psychologists to say this was a prisoner who deserved a second chance. Rehabilitated? My arse! No one had made Rupert Brownlow pay anything close to the debt he owed the victims’ families and friends, or indeed society itself, which shouldn’t feel safe as long as the justice system kept allowing people like him out early.
Would he reoffend? Who could tell? Probably not. Most could grasp that at the heart of the crime had been teenage irresponsibility fuelled by substances. But the do-gooders could only truly understand if one of their beloved had been a victim of Rupert’s casual disregard for others’ lives. Only then would they understand the depth of grief, the relentless pain, the life sentence that those left behind were now living. Why did a murderer who took one life go to jail for thirty years, while another who snuffed out eight lives only grind through a few years in an easy prison?
The rage Colin had felt a dozen years previously had turned inward, provided fuel, given permission for him to take the vengeance for private pain.
‘Won’t be long,’ the receptionist said. ‘Doctor’s just having to take a phone call.’
A nod, a bright smile. He distracted himself by continuing the film unfolding in his mind of the day when killing that whinger Rupert Brownlow had been the sweetest of revenges. It had all fallen into place. Brownlow had been released on a Saturday and his wealthy family had organised to have him whisked off to the seaside. The darker self had called in sick on the day of Brownlow’s release, but he was owed so many days leave that they’d sounded almost pleased. It had taken a couple of days of stake-out but he didn’t mind; he rather liked the fresh seaside air as he observed the comings and goings of the house, until he saw Rupert emerge alone as evening was arriving. He noticed that the newly released prisoner had buzzed his hair to change his looks and had pulled up the hood of his nondescript dark sweatshirt, beneath which he wore a beanie. Jeans completed the ensemble that allowed Rupert Brownlow to look like every other callow young man who walked around Portsmouth seafront. Brownlow had been loaned, or perhaps had rented, a small Japanese car and drove with some awareness, sticking to the speed limit. Made it easy to follow him.
Mirror Man Page 3